“Let’s try.”
15
Barely five minutes later, the telephone rang again.
“Ahh, Chief! ’At’d be Dr. Pisquano.”
“On the line?”
“Yissir.”
“Put ’im on.”
“How is it you haven’t busted my balls yet today?” Pasquano began, with the courtesy for which he was famous.
“Why should I have done that?”
“To find out the results of the autopsy.”
“Whose?”
“Montalbano, this is a clear sign of old age. A sign that your brain cells are disintegrating with increasing speed. The first symptom is memory loss. Did you know that? For example, does it sometimes happen that you’ll do something one minute, and the next minute you’ll forget that you did it?”
“No. But aren’t you, Doctor, five years older than me?”
“Yes, but the actual age doesn’t mean anything. There are people who are already old at twenty. In any case, I think it’s clear to all concerned that you’re the more doddering of the two of us.”
“Thanks.You want to tell me what autopsy you’re talking about?”
“This morning’s corpse.”
“Oh, no, you don’t, Doctor! The last thing I might imagine was that you would perform that autopsy so soon! What, were you good friends with the dead man or something? Normally you let days and days go by before—”
“This time I happened to have two free hours before lunchtime, and so I got him out of my hair. It turns out there are two minor new developments, with respect to what I told you this morning. The first is that I’ve recovered the bullet and sent it at once to Forensics, who, naturally, won’t have any news on it until after the next presidential election.”
“But the last one was barely three months ago!”
“Precisely.”
It was true. He recalled that he’d sent them the iron clubs used to kill the horse for fingerprints, but still hadn’t heard back from them.
“And what’s the second development?”
“I found some traces of cotton wool inside the wound.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the one who shot him is not the same person as the one who dumped him by the roadside.”
“Care to elaborate on that a little?”
“Gladly, especially considering the age of the person involved.”
“Whose age?”
“Yours, of course. That’s another product of aging: increasingly slow to comprehend.”
“Doctor, why don’t you go get—”
“I wish! It might improve my luck at poker! Anyway, I was explaining that, in my opinion, someone shot the soon-to-be dead man, gravely injuring him. Then a friend, or an accomplice, or somebody, took him home and tried in one way or another to stanch the blood flowing out of the wound. But the victim must have died shortly thereafter. So the helper waited until dark and then loaded the body into his car and dumped it in the open countryside, as far as possible from his house.”
“It’s a plausible hypothesis.”
“Thanks for understanding without need of further explanation.”
“Listen, Doctor. Any distinguishing marks?”
“Appendectomy scar.”
“That should help in the identification.”
“The identification of whom?”
“The dead man, who else?”
“The dead man never had an appendectomy!”
“But you just said he did!”
“You see, my friend? That’s another sign of aging.You asked me the question in such a confused way that I thought you were asking me if I had any distinguishing marks.”
Pasquano was just pulling his leg. He amused himself trying to get on Montalbano’s nerves.
“All right, Doctor, now that we’ve cleared up that misunderstanding, I will repeat my question, as straightforwardly as possible, so that it won’t require too much mental effort on your part, which could be fataclass="underline" Did the dead body on which you performed the autopsy today have any distinguishing marks?”
“I’d say it most certainly did.”
“Could you please tell me what those are?”
“No. It’s something I’d rather put in writing.”
“But when will I get your report?”
“When I have the time and the desire to write it.”
And there was no way to persuade him otherwise.
The inspector stayed a little while longer at the office, and then, as there was still no sign or word from either Fazio or Augello, he went home.
Shortly before he was about to go to bed, Livia phoned. This time, too, things did not go well.The conversation did not end in a squabble, but barely missed.
Words were no longer enough to help them get along and understand each other. It was as if their words, if you looked them up in the dictionary, had different and opposite definitions depending on whether he or Livia was using them.And these double meanings were a continual cause of confusion, misunderstandings, and quarrels.
But if they got together and were able to remain silent, one beside the other, things completely changed. It was as if their bodies started first to sniff each other, to pick up the other’s scent from a distance, then to speak to one another, with complete understanding, in a wordless language made up of small signs such as a leg moving an inch or two to get closer to the other, or a head leaning ever so slightly towards the other head. And, inevitably, the two bodies, still silent, would end up in a desperate embrace.
He slept poorly and was even startled awake by a nightmare in the middle of the night. How was it possible that he had gone years and years without even the slightest thought about horses and horse racing, and now he was actually dreaming about them?
He found himself in a hippodrome with three tracks running parallel to one another. With him was Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi, impeccably dressed in riding clothes. For his part, Montalbano was unshaven and disheveled, in a shabby suit with one torn sleeve. He looked like a panhandler on the street.The grandstand was packed with people shouting and gesticulating.
“Augello, put on your glasses before mounting!” Bonetti-Alderighi commanded him.
“I’m not Augello. I’m Montalbano.”
“It makes no difference, put them on just the same! Can’t you see you’re blind as a bat?”
“I can’t put ’em on, I lost ’em onna way ’ere, I got holes in m’ pockets,” he replied, feeling ashamed.
“Penalty! You spoke in dialect!” shouted a voice, as if from a loudspeaker.
“You see the trouble you’re getting me in?” the commissioner reproached him.
“I’m sorry.”
“Get the horse!”
He turned to grab the horse, but realized it was made of bronze and half collapsed, sitting on its haunches, exactly like the RAI horse[14].
“How can I?”
“Grab it by the mane!”
The instant his hand touched the mane, the horse thrust its head between the inspector’s legs, hoisted him up on its neck, and raised its head, making him slide down the neck, so that he ended up mounted, but backwards, facing the animal’s haunches.
He heard laughing from the grandstand. Feeling insulted, with great effort he turned around, grabbing the mane as hard as he could, because the horse, having now become flesh and blood, was not saddled and had no reins.
Someone fired some sort of cannon, and the horse set off at a gallop towards the middle track between the other two.
“No! No!” Bonetti-Alderighi yelled.
“No! No!” the people in the grandstand repeated.
“You’re on the wrong track,” Bonetti-Alderighi yelled.
Everyone was gesticulating, but he couldn’t make out the gestures and saw only blurry splotches of color, since he had lost his glasses. He realized the horse was doing something wrong, but how do you tell a horse it’s doing something wrong? And why wasn’t it the right track?
He understood why a moment later, when the animal began to walk with great effort.The track was made of sand, the same kind of sand as a beach. But very fine and deep, so that the horse’s hooves sank further into it with each step until they were completely submerged. A track of sand. Why was this happening to him, of all people? He tried to turn the animal’s head to the left, so that it would take the other track. But he suddenly realized that the other, parallel tracks were gone; the hippodrome with its fences and grandstand had vanished, and even the track he was on was no longer there, because it had all become an ocean of sand.
14
the horse . . . was made of bronze and half collapsed, sitting on its haunches, exactly like the RAI horse: The symbol of the RAI (Radiotelevisione Italiana, the national, state-owned radio and television network) is as described, and there is a bronze statue of it outside the network offices.The author worked for many years directing television and stage productions for the network.